


your friends are full of shit

by Headfirst_for_halos



Category: No Fandom
Genre: AND LOTS OF CRYING, And brains, Anger, Angst, Bad Friends, Betrayal, Bloodthirsty, Crying, Depression, Emotional, Emotional Constipation, Guns and guts, Late at Night, Made up character, Mention of guns, Nameless Character - Freeform, Need for violence, Original Character - Freeform, Pacifist at heart, Rain, Sadness, Urge for violence, Violence, Violent Thoughts, angry, at the end, character in pain, feeling alone, feeling betrayed, lonely, sensitive character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-05-28 05:16:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19387267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Headfirst_for_halos/pseuds/Headfirst_for_halos
Summary: With their faces engraved in his mind, their voices ringing in his ears, there's anger swimming in his blood.His finger is on the trigger.He still can't do it.





	your friends are full of shit

And as he walks down the street all he can think about is how much he wants to hurt people.

Everyone.

Causing others, anguish is in the forefront of his mind.

There is a voice inside his brain begging him to just let go “just look them in the eye and pull the fucking trigger. Blow their brains out of their heads, watch their bodies become nothing, let them pile on the floor”.

He needs it.

He wants it.

He can feel his heart pumping with that single purpose. And it isn’t the sadism of it. It is the symbolism. He wants their metaphorical hearts in his palm and their symbolic brains all across the floor.

He wants it. His heart wants it, his brain just won’t let him have it. Can’t justify it. Can’t explain it. He can’t shut the fucking thing off.

So he walks down the street, symbolic blood on his hands, whishing, _obsessing,_ that he could just cause pain for once. That he could just not _feel_ it, for a moment.

It's pitch black and all he can hear is the splashing sound of his sneakers against the wet asphalt. He doesn’t even remember when it had been raining, but it couldn’t have stopped too long ago.

He thinks about the way he feels empty. He thinks about that resigned sort of feeling, and how when you finally start feeling hate, it just consumes you. There’s nothing else. Like there’s too much of it, and his body isn’t enough to hold it in, so he watches it bleed through his hands, fall out of his eyes and run down his face.

He never wanted to be like this. He never wanted any pain to be too much pain, but it was. And it is. And finally he can’t handle it, can’t deal with it, can’t accept it. Like he finally decides that he doesn’t deserve it. That this time it just isn’t right.

This time he doesn’t want it inside of him. He doesn’t want to give up space for it. He doesn’t want to be changed because of it. Doesn’t want to grow from it. He just wants to finish now. Like a spring that’s ready to explode. He wants to explode.

He wants to break, and destroy. He doesn’t want to create anymore. It’s all just tiring, and he always tries, and it’s all so tiring.

So he thinks about people.

He thinks about everyone. He wants someone to be there, someone who stands out. Someone who doesn’t hurt him, someone he wants to trust. There’s no one.

It chokes him. Crushes his airways from the inside.

He’s exhausted but he keeps walking. And as he sees their faces in his head again, his hands keep forming into fists and his feet hit the pavement with more and more force. He can't help it, he can't forget it. His mind goes back to the scene again and again. The way they looked at him. The sympathy. He _hates_ sympathy.

His feet hit the pavement so hard, splashing the water everywhere that his jeans are now wet up to the knees,and his finger nails are digging into the flesh of his palm, just short of drawing blood, but he's barely aware of it. He doesn’t want to think. For once he just doesn’t want to think. And he doesn’t want to be alone. 

And that chokes him too.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t know how long he’s been walking for, but now he has to stop.

He doesn’t fall to his knees, doesn’t look up at the sky, doesn’t scream his lungs out.

He’s not blinking, he's not _breathing_ , it’s like it’s all too much.

He cries.

He cries and cries and cries.

And the water beneath his feet doesn’t seem out of place anymore. It doesn’t feel like he’s empty anymore.

It feels like he’s dying. 

Like the water running down his cheeks is all he is. And as it falls and dries and vanishes he vanishes a little too, dies a little more, until his body is nothing but an empty shell. 

And just like that the pain has found a place inside of him. This horrible thing sticking to his body from the inside and consuming him in a completely different way.

And as his heart is pumping pain through his veins again,he can feel it spreading, tying anchors around his legs, and turning his chest into liquid.

He screams.

He sobs and screams and cries some more.

He remembers how he’s insignificant. He feels it.

He wants the tears to choke him. He wants to not ever breathe again. He wants to never hope again.

This black feeling, this horrible rough feeling. It’s everywhere. It’s on him, in him, around him. It’s the air that he breathes, and the tears that he cries, and the blood running through his veins. It’s everything, and it’s endless.

It doesn’t end for a while. The crying doesn’t end, until there’s a car speeding past him.

It soaks him from the waist down, and there’s cold shivers running down his back. He takes deep breaths, the oxygen not reaching his lungs, his throat filled with the same mix of saliva and tears, that's also covering half his face and his hands are covered in cold sweat. There are goosebumps everywhere. His whole body starts to shake.

He doesn’t know where he is. He looks around with wide teary eyes, his face portraying the face of a child. There is snot over his lips, and in his hair from when it fell in his face. He feels pathetic. Helpless. 

He needs someone now. He needs someone to take him home.

After some more deep breaths, his eyes sealed shut, he turns around.

He is the picture of perfect misery. Slouching on the side of the road, his eyes glued to the ground and half his clothes wet. 

He sniffs and breathes through his mouth, his head burning up. 

The anger has somehow faded, and the adrenaline disappeared.

He feels spent, used up. 

He's too tired to bring himself to think about it again. He doesn't think he can make it home if he does, either. 

So he keeps walking in the same direction hoping for something to start looking familiar. 

And when he wakes up the next morning with his face pressed down on his sofa, the last thing he remembers is the splashing sound of his sneakers against the pavement. 


End file.
